We board our westbound Trans-Siberian train in Irkutsk. In Russia there are four classes: third, lower second, upper second, and first. We opt for lower second to: save a bit of money, and, avoid meeting no one but other foreigners. But it is nice to have a room with a door to close. So we avoid third class.
In the end, lower second is identical to upper second. Except the lower second car has been transported by way of time machine from the year nineteen seventy five. Every thing is brown. Yet every button, switch and knob still functions perfectly.
The provodnitsa points us in the direction of our room. She will be working our train car for the duration of our journey. At some points she will be very kind and seemingly understanding of our cluelessness about the various protocols. And other times, she will have absolutely no patience for whatever it is we are trying to do.
We open the door to our four-bed compartment and see that no one is sharing it with us. Slightly saddened, yet deep down slightly relieved, we begin to organize ourselves. And, as we lift the westbound seat exposing the storage compartment beneath, we find another passenger’s bag already there.
Natalia slides the door open a few minutes later and semi-shyly introduces herself to us. She speaks next to no English, but surprisingly, a bit of French. Which is handy.
We sit for a minute to relax, and take in the moment.
And without the tiniest bit of warning whatsoever, the train silently begins to move forward. Right on the minute printed on our tickets. We read that as a warning to be very conscious any time we temporarily step off the train during our journey.
A very short time later the provodnitsa comes by to collect our train tickets. They will be returned to us minutes before the stop we are to get off at. Perhaps as a no-language-necessary warning that we are where we want to be.
A little bit of very broken back and forth French-English-Russian with our roommate-for-the-night, we eventually decide to go investigate the restaurant car.
The woman in charge is an outgoing babooshka. And she speaks a useful amount of English. A couple cold pivas (beers), some snacks, some card games, and finally a couple vodkas, we decide to step out of the train car onto the platform for a few minutes while the train has stopped.
A little while out as we enjoy the fresh Siberian air, the restaurant car babooshka’s unhappy-looking righthand man comes out and potentially motions at us to come in. But we aren’t really sure.
As he and the provodnitsa have words, we decide perhaps he isn’t happy that we haven’t paid our bill yet. So we go back to finish our card game and vodkas. As we eventually pay and leave (after one more round of course!), both employees seem over the moon that we were there. And joyously invite us back for breakfast the next morning.
This behaviour doesn’t seem uncommon amongst the Russian people. Very few pleasantries, little to no smiling, sometimes signs of “don’t cross me or I will fuck you up”.
When we arrived at the Irkutsk train station in our taxi, Zoe said spaseeba (thank you) to the driver and all he did was shrug his left shoulder while raising the opposite eyebrow. Otherwise completely deadpan. Like, what the hell are you thanking me for, I did exactly what you paid me to do.
Fair point.
But then other times, people are boisterously helpful wanting to make sure we are going to where we want to be. Very warm, very welcoming. Practically thanking us for coming to visit their country.
We wobble back to our room (not from the vodka, that is) and Natalia has her lower bunk bed all setup and appears to be sleeping. So we quietly set ours up. A bit earlier than we would normally hit the hay, it seems rude to be in the room if we don’t plan on also sleeping. So we stand outside the room for a few minutes and take in the full moon casting it’s bright light across the Siberian pine forest.
I eventually hop up to my lower-lower-second class upper berth (Russians are quick to book the lower beds) and do a bit of reading.
I eventually turn my light off and graduate to doing some thinking.
Kachunk kachunk.
Kachunk kachunk.
Kachunk kachunk.
The train rolls over the seams in the tracks at a pace that almost matches the beat of the human heart.
With my light off and the blind covering much of the room’s window, it is now quite dark. But I can still see almost everything.
I start tallying up the near-thousand kilometres of Russian countryside I won’t be seeing while I’m asleep in our rolling hotel. Seems a shame.
Lying still is completely not an option. An unseen force is gently holding onto me everywhere at once. Pushing and pulling. Back and forth. Continuously. Relentlessly.
My brain wanders. It now feels like I’m in an old movie. Perhaps as one of Stalin’s soldiers en route to a war in the West.
Or worse, a Decemberist heading east to a coal mine in the exiles of Siberia.
Kachunk kachunk.
Kachunk kachunk.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Kachunk kachunk.
Back and forth.
.
.
.
Nighty night.
